


The One-Bite Rule

by Sherlycakes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 12 Days of Ficmas, Boys Kissing, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, mincemeat pies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8946742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlycakes/pseuds/Sherlycakes
Summary: John has a family Christmas tradition he'd like to share with Sherlock. Sherlock wants to be a part of this tradition, but he's not sure he can stomach it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In response to two separate Tumblr Fic challenges-  
> [The Seasonal Fucking Cheer 2016 Ficathon](http://roquentine19.tumblr.com/post/153761991438/welcome-to-our-seasonal-fucking-cheer-2016) posted by roquentine19 and msdisdain and the [12 Days of Ficmas 2016](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com/post/154205774739/its-that-time-of-year-again-starting-december) posted by hudders-and-hiddles
> 
> Sherlock's inner thoughts are in italics, in case you weren't sure.
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr!](https://bakingsherlycakes.tumblr.com)

“John!”  Sherlock ran up the stairs to 221B. “Jooohhnnn!” 

It was time to regale John with the results of his latest experiment at St. Bart’s on the decay rates of different skin types when subjected to various acidic liquids. After John made him a hot cup of tea, of course.  And perhaps he could be coerced into revealing the location of the last package of Hobnobs.  John could be so crafty these days. 

_Just because he holds my heart shouldn’t automatically make it possible for him to sneak things past me. I have an international reputation!_

_They’re the chocolate ones, too. Damn him and his healthful ways._

Sherlock was pulled back from his petulant thoughts by the sound of the London Symphony Orchestra playing Hark The Herald Angels Sing coming from inside the flat, apparently accompanied by his favorite baritone Doctor.  He slowly opened the door and began looking for the source of the music. 

_CD player recently dusted. Fragment of cellophane wrapping from new disc on floor. Singing John-voice. Fairy lights on mantel. Intriguing smells emanating from kitchen. Oh._

_OH._

_Christmas Eve._

_John._

Sherlock crept to the kitchen door and stopped short at the sight of John in a blue floral pinney, up to his elbows in a mixing bowl filled with ingredients yet to be deduced. His hair had streaks of flour in it, as if he’d absentmindedly run his fingers through. 

 _Still getting used to the longer length, I see._  

His rolled-up sleeves and jumper casually thrown over his chair told Sherlock he’d been at this for a while.  There were two patty tins, already buttered, at the ready on the counter space strictly designated for food preparation only.  

“John?” Sherlock called out over London’s finest players (who had evidently moved on to Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus). 

 _Hmm. Fitting choice considering how long it took us to figure things out_.  

John whirled around with a chagrined smile just tugging up the corners of his mouth.  He rubbed his hand over the back of his head and said, “Hey there.  You’re home early then?”  

Sherlock’s need for tea promptly disappeared at the sight of John’s forehead smudged with what seemed to be icing sugar.

_Results inconclusive. Commence testing without delay._

He walked over to John, slid his arms around that trim waist he so loved, and pressed his lips to the sugar smear. 

“Mmm,” John sighed. “I’ve missed you today.” 

Sherlock licked his lips- _Ah, golden caster sugar_ \- and buried his nose in John’s hair mumbling, “What are you doing, my dear sentimental Doctor?”

John tilted his head back toward the messy countertop. “I’m making mince pies.  My Gram taught me how when I stayed with her over the winter holiday the year I was eleven. I’ve made them nearly every year since.”

Sherlock wrinkled up his nose. “It doesn’t smell like mincemeat. I never could stomach the ones Mummy made at Christmas.  Beef suet and meat in a pie with fruit, John! It’s atrocious. Should be illegal really.” 

 _I_ _f he tries to make me eat one, it’s straight back to St. Bart’s for me._

_I love him…hmmm, yes, how I love him. But no mincemeat._

_Next he’ll try to get me to sweetbreads. Which are NOT sweet at all._

_Nope._

John grinned knowingly at Sherlock’s perplexed face.  “Let me guess- your mum has a very traditional recipe that’s been passed down through generations of Holmeses for a hundred years or more. It probably takes days, even months to make properly. Right?”

Sherlock released his grip on John and surveyed the contents of the countertop a bit more closely. “Yes, John. The recipe is a highly guarded family secret. Even Mycroft doesn’t know it. Not that either of us want such a terrible recipe. It’s become sort of a contest between us-who can get rid of the awful thing first without being discovered and subsequently having to endure eating it.”

His eyes grew unfocused as he reminisced.  

_Of course, I’ll win this year. That tailor I proved innocent of strangling his ex-wife owed me a favor._

_A few strategic modifications to the Belstaff and voila!_ _He did give me a strange look when I asked for a secret pocket with a waterproof lining exactly the dimensions of  one of Mummy’s pies...no matter._

_The game is on, Mincecroft!_

“Sherlock? Love? You with me?” John gently plucked at a curl on the nape of Sherlock’s neck.  “Stop plotting against your arse of a brother and give me a hand with these pies.” 

John handed Sherlock another pinney, this one dark green with white stripes.  Sherlock held it out with a look of haughty disdain.

_Nope. Never._

“Unless you fancy making a mess of that sexy bespoke suit we’re both so fond of, I’d put it on,” John said casually.

While the music changed to White Christmas, John gathered up a few spoons and then held up a jar of Robertson’s Classic Mincemeat, looking at it fondly. “This is my Gram’s secret ingredient which I am now sharing with you because I love you, you git. No need to wait a hundred years. We’ve waited long enough.”

_Yes. Too long._

_Nearly too late._

John continued, “You’ll always be part of my traditions from now on, Sherlock.  So I want us to finish putting these pies together, snog ourselves silly on the sofa while they’re baking, and then burn the roofs of our mouths on the hot filling trying to eat them straight from the oven. Sounds good, yeah?”

John turned around to find Sherlock fully frocked, paused in the middle of tying the bow behind his back, eyes widened in apprehension. “But…I…John, I…I don’t like mince pies,” Sherlock said quietly, dipping his head. 

_Yes to baking. Yes, Yes, YES to snogging._

_No way to eating mincemeat._

_I’m sorry, John._

“Hey now, none of that,” John put his thumb under Sherlock’s chin and pressed softly, tilting his head until grey-green eyes met deep blue ones.

“I’d like to be part of your tradition, John. I like doing things with you.  I like being with you. I love snogging with you. I like anything, if it’s with you. But I don’t want to mess it up,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John said, “You won’t. Of course you won’t.”

And he pulled Sherlock down so their foreheads met.  They spent a moment just breathing each other in, enjoying the closeness.

“Did I ever tell you about my Gram’s other holiday tradition,” John asked after a bit.  Sherlock shook his head as they pulled apart. 

“Well, my Gram was pretty damn smart when it came to wee ones. She knew most kids are pants at trying new foods.  And she knew the holidays involved a heap of new foods kids would balk over eating.” John paused and ran his hands through Sherlock’s curls, petting him tenderly.

_Oh, hello._

_John-pats._

_My favorite._

_Don’t stop, John. Please._

“I think I would’ve liked your Gram,” Sherlock rumbled, eyes slipping closed in pleasure. 

“Oh, I know you would have liked her,” John replied, smiling a little wistfully. He gave Sherlock one last pat and then turned back around and grabbed two spoons from the kitchen counter.

Holding one out to Sherlock he said, “Here, take one of these and start filling the bottom crusts in that tin with two spoonfuls each from the jar. I’ll take the other tin.”

They began working side by side, silently spooning the mincemeat into the tins, only the sound of Oh Holy Night between them.

“So, my Gram’s other tradition was called the One-Bite Rule. Ever heard of it?” John nudged Sherlock with his hip when he didn’t immediately reply.

“No, John, but it’s not a difficult deduction. Your Gram’s rule is children should take one bite of a food before they decide they won’t eat it,” Sherlock said loftily as he finished loading the last crust into his baking tin.

_Of course, that rule clearly doesn’t apply to me. I’m an adult._

_John sometimes thinks I’m a toddler but again, I am 40 years old._

_So he can’t make me._

_So there._  

John took the tin from him and added lids to the pies, pressing the edges together carefully with a fork to seal them.

“See that teacup with beaten egg in it?” John motioned to one of the cups they had accidentally on purpose borrowed from Mrs. Hudson.  “You brush the tops of the pies with the egg and I’ll sprinkle on a bit more caster sugar. Gram always said it made the pies more holiday-like when they sparkle a bit.”

As Sherlock followed John’s instructions he thought about how John’s holiday spirit began.

_It’s nearly always been a part of him. Now he’s sharing it (including this frankly appalling pie) with me._

_Yet I'm 99% certain he knows most people think I'm rather like that furry green man who stole Christmas from those tiny creatures in that ridiculous (Max the dog excluded) cartoon he made me watch yesterday._

_John Watson. You'll never stop being surprising._

“Ok, I think they’re ready for the oven,” John said. He slid the pies into the oven and set the timer on his phone for 20 minutes. 

 _How did he learn to use THAT when he still can’t set our alarm clock?_  

“Don’t look at me like that! I know you’re still much better with technology than me but I am capable of learning a few things now and then,” John chided lightly as he wiped his hands on a tea towel and took Sherlock’s pinney from him. 

“However, I’m willing to overlook such cheeky behavior as we’ve come to the snogging portion of our new tradition. Care to join me on the sofa?” He took Sherlock’s hand and pulled him into the living room. 

_Oh, God yes._

They settled down with John’s back against the arm of the sofa and Sherlock cradled against John’s chest, the CD player serenading them with I'll Be Home For Christmas. John’s strong hands found their way back to Sherlock’s hair, as they always managed to do. He guided Sherlock’s lips to his, gradually deepening their kisses, wanting Sherlock to know how loved he really was. 

Sherlock couldn’t help moaning when he felt John lick across his bottom lip, finishing up with a soft nip to the corner of his mouth.

_Ooohhh. Yes!_

_That’s the kind of one-bite rule I’m inclined to follow._

_I want a two-bite rule._

_No, three._

Their kissing quickly grew fervent, tongues sliding against one another’s. Sherlock slid his hands down John’s ribs and held onto his hips. He rested his thumbs along John’s hipbones, lightly sweeping across them.  

 _I want to bite these hips. Is that part of the one-bite rule?_  

John pressed himself even closer. His hands splayed across Sherlock’s shoulder blades, pulling their chests flush. He nibbled at that long, pale, beautiful neck.

“Mmm, Sherlock,” he gasped, as Sherlock began moving his hips, rubbing against John.  “I want…oh, I…please…let me take you to bed.”

At that moment the phone timer went off, startling both of them apart. 

John looked longingly at Sherlock’s mussed curls and kiss-reddened lips and said, “Just hold that thought, Hon.  Let me grab our mince pies before they burn.  I don’t want to ruin your first taste of my Gram’s recipe."

He lowered his voice. "Then it’s straight to bed, I promise.”

Sherlock watched unhappily as John got up and trotted to the kitchen to rescue the pies. Then he groaned loudly and flopped face down on the sofa.

_No pie tasting = no John tasting. Ugh._

_WHY is it a mince pie tradition? Why not rum cake? Or cinnamon sugar biscuits? Even eggnog would suffice._

_Stupid one-bite rule._

John appeared next to the sofa bearing a plate with one of the small pies they had baked.  He sat down on the coffee table and blew on it to cool it down a bit. “They really are best when they’re hot from the oven, Sherlock. Sit up and have a bite. Don’t worry, I’ll have one, too.”

_Oh, hell._

Sherlock grudgingly sat up and moved over until he was knee to knee with John.  John was holding the mince pie in his hand, offering it to Sherlock. He smiled encouragingly and held the pie up to Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly and turned his head.

“Oh, come now,” John said patiently. “Don’t be like that. You’ll love my Gram’s pies. You trust me, don’t you Sherlock?”

_Oh. Hell._

“Of course I trust you, John. After everything we’ve been through this year, you know I do. But my experience with these terrib…um, with these particular pies has made me-”

“Stubborn,” John teased.  “Listen, your mum’s mincemeat might have been a bit off-putting as a kid, but I swear my Gram’s recipe will change your mind. Think of it as an experiment. You’ve only had a sample size of one until now. Here’s a chance to strengthen your theory that mince pie is unfit for human consumption.  You have to have at least one bite before we get back to where we were on the sofa anyway. The One-Bite rule, remember?”

John leaned over to whisper in Sherlock's ear, adding, “And I for one want to get back there as. soon. as. possible.” 

John wiggled the pie temptingly in front of Sherlock’s face.  Sherlock coolly kept his head turned and lips tightly shut, this time adding closed eyes to his obstinate moue.

_Nope._

John raised his eyebrows and sat back in disbelief.  He returned the pie to the plate and crossed his arms over his chest.

Then Captain John Watson, formerly of the RAMC 5th Northumberland Fusiliers (and lately, Certified Consulting Detective Wrangler), employed a tactic that had worked for him time after time on at least three continents. 

He lowered his head, shaking it slightly, and sighed woefully.

At the sound, Sherlock tilted his head and cracked one eye open to peek at John.

_What is he…OH NO. Not that. John, no. That’s cheating._

_PLEASEGODDONTDOTHATFACEYOUKNOWICANTSAYNO!_

_Dammit._

_He’s doing it._

John kept his head bowed and looked up at Sherlock through thick, blond lashes. He widened those blue eyes ever so slightly. He licked his lips and bit at the bottom one, pulling it slowly between his teeth.

Then John murmured, sotto voce, “Please, babe? For me?”

_Fuck._

_That damn lip._

Sherlock was done in. He dropped his shoulders and leaned forward to smear a kiss across John’s temple.

“Ok, ok. Of course, my John,” he said. “I’ll try one bite- just one, mind you- of the pie.”

John immediately perked up and beamed at Sherlock. “I knew you’d see it my way eventually.”

He placed his right hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed gently.  With his left hand, he held the pie back up between them. 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and moved in to take his one bite.

_Mincemeat pie tasting = happy John = sexy time = happy Sherlock_

As he began to chew, Sherlock’s eyes flew open in shock.

The sweet pie filling was highly spiced with flavours of cinnamon, ginger, clove, and nutmeg. He tasted apple and plum and currant.  Tiny bits of candied lemon and orange peel stuck to his teeth in the very best way. The sugared crust was buttery and provided a crunchy counterpoint to the warm insides of the pie. 

_This is…not terrible._

_This is amazing, in fact._

_Wait._

_Then this is NOT mincemeat pie._

_John tricked me!_

_That sneaky sneak._

Sherlock turned his focus on John, whose shoulders were shaking in silent laughter. 

John swiped at the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes said, “Your face! I wish you could see your face just now. It moved from terror to bliss to confusion to suspicion so quickly I could hardly keep up!” 

Sherlock turned his nose up and grumped, “I don’t think your Gram’s One-Bite Rule applies when the food isn’t vile. That pie clearly isn’t mincemeat, John, so it’s not increasing the sample size. Therefore, your experiment is flawed. It’s a wonder you made it through chemistry in Uni.”

John plopped down next to Sherlock on the sofa and put his arm around his shoulders, snuggling up close. He grinned at Sherlock’s dour expression. “Oh, come now. Admit it. You actually liked my Gram’s pie recipe.” 

Sherlock laid his head on John’s shoulder and sighed. “While I will admit that I liked your Gram’s pie, I will not admit I liked her “mincemeat” pie because that was not what I ate.”

_No beef suet. No meat._

_Not horrid, therefore not mincemeat pie._

John smoothed an errant curl back from Sherlock’s forehead and laid a kiss in its place.  “I think the experiment is still valid, love.  Although, maybe you’ve deleted some relevant information about mince pies from that exceptional hard drive of a brain I adore so much. My Gram’s recipe really IS for mincemeat pies. Her secret ingredient really IS Robertson’s mincemeat. But there’s no real meat anymore in most of today's mincemeat recipes."

John paused. "And there never was in my Gram’s recipe...she was a vegetarian.”

Sherlock bolted upright and stared at John with narrowed eyes. “A vegetarian! There’s always something.”

He grabbed the remains of the pie from the plate on the coffee table and took another huge bite, nearly finishing off what was left. “I’d have eaten lots more mince pies in the past if they’d have tasted like your Gram’s, John.”

_Mummy must never know._

_Or Hudders, actually._

“I do think I understand her One-Bite Rule a bit better now, though,” Sherlock continued.  

_He knew what would happen the whole time._

_John = rascal = well played, my dear_

John popped the last bite of pie into his mouth and stood up beside the sofa just as the CD player switched to the final track- Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.  He held a hand out to his Sherlock.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d like to finish what we started while the pies were baking.  How about we leave the mess until tomorrow?”  

Sherlock took John’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled from the sofa straight into his most favorite arms.  As he answered John with a kiss, he could discern the lingering taste of apples and cinnamon and a dash of something else- something that was purely John Watson- purely home.  

_I love you, John._

_This Christmas tradition can stay._

_The pies can stay, too._

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to make the mincemeat pies John and Sherlock did, click [HERE](http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/2174/unbelievably-easy-mince-pies)
> 
> If you'd like to see the ingredients of Robertson's Classic Mincemeat, click [HERE](https://www.britishcornershop.co.uk/robertsons-luxury-mincemeat)


End file.
